


Surrounded

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 02:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13627101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Being a hormonal young prince is infinitely harder with so many hotties around.





	Surrounded

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Noctis is a hormonal teenage boy. He tries to concentrate on studying and training, he really does, but he just can't help it that he gets distracted thinking about sex ALL. THE. TIME. It doesn't help that everyone he has to spend time with is so goddamn hot. Can be requited or not, I'm just looking for Noct spacing out fantasizing about everyone and then being super embarrassed about it when he gets called on it.” prompt on [the FFXV kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=7655726#cmt7655726).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The dining table in his apartment is full of papers—some from the council, some from volunteer work, and most from school. Studying is, in itself, almost a fulltime job. And Noctis _tries_ to excel at it. But that’s only possible when he’s directly under Ignis’ watchful gaze, Prompto’s distractions are nowhere to be found, and training with Gladiolus has left him too tired to warp away.

He slumps in his chair and really focuses his mind down onto the paper—a historical study of the Wall, of all things, as though he isn’t involved enough. Across from him, over the table and the island, Ignis is busy in the kitchenette, white sleeves rolled up and a thin apron cast over his clothes—Noctis can see the strings pulled into a long bow that rests just at his tailbone, draping down his pert rear end, one particular end lightly swaying against his thigh whenever he shifts about the stove. In fact, his _hips_ seem to sway with each careful step—Ignis has always been inherently graceful. He slaves away in Noctis’ makeshift kitchen, bent wholly on serving Noctis’ needs. The heat from the stove has even left a few stray beads of sweat against his forehead, visible when he occasionally glances back to check on Noctis. Noctis automatically averts his gaze every time, but he can see Ignis frowning in his peripherals. The steam has given Ignis’ neatly combed bangs a more pronounced swirl. Then Ignis returns to his work, leaving Noctis in peace, and Noctis can steal another look at the long, lithe line of his back.

The only thing that could make that sight better would be if the prim button-up shirt weren’t there, and maybe the business pants too. Even more than a delicious home-cooked meal, Noctis would like to see Ignis cooking in nothing but that apron, his smooth, pale skin all out on display. Of course, Noctis’ apartment isn’t particularly hot, and maybe the stove wouldn’t be enough—maybe it would be too much for Ignis’ sensitive nipples, and they’d harden against the flimsy fabric, giving it an alluring tent. Then Ignis could promise to show them off, to shed the apron entirely, if Noctis finished his studies. Or if Noctis ate a vegetable. But Noctis would barter it down—he is a _prince_ , after all, and Ignis is his very loyal subject, and surely Ignis would bend over and show Noctis everything he wanted at just a snap of his greedy fingers.

In the real world, Ignis diverts to the fridge, bending at the waist to search inside it, and Noctis’ pencil falls right out of his hand. The new position has pulled Ignis’ snug pants tight enough for Noctis to practically salivate over. He just wants to push all his work off the counter and shove Ignis over it. It’s not like any of these studies will actually _matter_ in the long run. But a king should know how to satisfy his subjects, how to satisfy himself, and he can’t help it—he’s a hormonal young man surrounded by complete hotties that would give their lives for him. Ignis would do _anything_ for him. And all he wants to do is _do_ Ignis.

He’s equal parts annoyed and relieved when he hears the front door open. On the one hand, it’ll be harder to ogle Ignis with witnesses around, but on the other hand, he probably needs to stop. His work won’t do itself. And the last thing he needs is another lecture from Ignis over a failing grade, because if there’s one thing that makes Ignis even hotter, it’s an enticing air of authority. 

His luck proves so much worse than that. Prompto practically crawls into the apartment, heading right for the couch and falling face-first onto it, with Gladiolus hot on his heels. Gladiolus’ shirt is open, as per usual, and his bulging muscles are glistening with sweat, chest beating just a little fast and voice deep with satisfaction as he tells them, “Blondie’s getting better, guys. Another decade or so of training and he _might_ actually be on par with the rest of us.”

Muffled by the cushions, Prompto whines, “Shut up!” His trim body is practically trembling, slimming clothes glued to his skin. He’s flushed and boneless, collapsed on _Noctis’_ couch. The only thing cuter than Prompto is a spent, trembling Prompto. Noctis can feel himself staring.

He wrenches away, only to land on Gladiolus’ abs. It’s the nightmare of training sessions all over again. Those have become almost painful, because Gladiolus is almost _always_ shirtless, and his beefcake body is like something right out of the magazines. And then he has to go and work it up, run himself hoarse and ragged, and make Noctis wonder if he looks like that during _other_ forms of work outs.

A part of Noctis wishes they’d invited him—he still would’ve loved to see them go at it together. Gladiolus’ big, thick body chasing Prompto’s slender form across the training hall. Gladiolus knocking Prompto to the floor, dominating him completely, so easily. Prompto still struggling, writhing and whimpering in Gladiolus’ determined grasp, before finally submitting to his fate. Maybe turning over in defeat. Offering himself up, taut thighs spreading apart and ripe ass held up for the taking, Gladiolus’ zipper coming down and the most massive, gorgeous—

“Noct,” Ignis dryly says, starling Noctis right out of his daydream. He looks over at his advisor, trying to feign innocence but probably beet red. His heart hammers in his chest, embarrassment seeping into every pore. He hates getting caught. But he can’t _help_ it. They’re all so damn _perfect_ , and Prompto makes a wanton moan from the couch, something that’s probably meant to convey distress but just sounds like pure sex. Ignis’ level gaze gives Noctis the distinct impression that he _knows_. “Your studies aren’t going to study themselves.”

Noctis mutters, “Thanks, mom,” without the usual bite to his teasing. If anything, the nickname just makes him blush harder. He looks down at his papers and can’t bring himself to meet Gladiolus’ questioning gaze.

In the background, Prompto obliviously whines, “Any chance anybody wants to give me a massage?”

And Noctis promptly orders, “No!” before anyone can make it worse.


End file.
